


sister's pathos, vampire's mercy.

by tieflingenthusiast



Category: Disgaea (Games), Disgaea 4: A Promise Unforgotten
Genre: Gen, tiny fenrich appearance at the end. how could I write disgaea content without including the gay dog.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26358304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tieflingenthusiast/pseuds/tieflingenthusiast
Summary: “For the crime of treason, performed with the rescue of and attendance to an enemy Lieutenant Commander, we the high court sentence Artina Friedrich, Sister of the Institutional Society of The Holy Lady, to be hanged by the neck until dead.”Artina considers her last regrets.
Relationships: Arutina | Artina | Vulcanus & Nemo, Barubatoze | Valvatorez/Arutina | Artina | Vulcanus
Kudos: 7





	sister's pathos, vampire's mercy.

“For the crime of treason, performed with the rescue of and attendance to an enemy Lieutenant Commander, we the high court sentence Artina Friedrich, Sister of the Institutional Society of The Holy Lady, to be hanged by the neck until dead.”

The slamming of the gavel gets the blood pumping in her ears, loud enough to almost silence the protesting wails of her fellow Sisters who have attended in protest of her sentencing. Artina holds onto a brave face, smiling for the lot of them as a uniformed soldier grabs her by her bound wrists and drags her away. Still, she keeps her smile for them until she’s sure they can’t see her anymore. To send her beloved order off with a smile feels important. They shouldn’t feel despair here, for young Sister Artina dies for her beliefs!

...Ha, yeah right.

Her serene mask falls to pieces as soon as she’s locked in her cell. She sobs to herself, and she shivers, and she curls herself into a ball to try and pretend she’s not here. It’s all far too much for her to bear. The terror of her fate, the dread welling up in her at the prospect of her approaching demise, and the _regret_. She knows now that her kindness has only worsened things. Her beliefs hold strong in her mind, but kindness walled in on all sides by cruelty is no kindness at all.

 _That man_ will be tortured for information now that he has a shred of a chance at recovery. He will suffer unimaginable pains and assaults and humiliations, all because of Artina’s healing hands. If only she’d left him to merciful death, if only -

**_No._ **

Leaving someone to die goes against all she stands for! No, she doesn’t regret a thing. Even if this is her fault, she stood by her beliefs. There are no regrets to be had there. Artina won’t let herself regret it.

Shifting to her knees, she prays.

_O Righteous Father, Lord God in Heaven and Glorious Angel of Protection,_

_Know that I adore Thee and Thine, and that I, Sister Artina, am but Your most humble of servants._

_I can offer You little but my love and prayers in my dire circumstance, and respectfully must throw myself upon Your mercy and ask of you - Protect that man, who suffers so. Protect my beloved Sisters, for they love You as I do. Protect little Nagi, who despairs with the weight of her grief. Protect my country, and protect Rekidona even as we clash. Please, O God, I beg you - bring an end to this war. No more agony should befall the people. No more pain and needless death. Human hearts are flawed and hateful, but You surely know the way to bring out their innate goodness._

_So please, save them all. I don’t care what happens to me. I’ve lived a life I’m proud of, in line with what I believe in. With these paltry eighteen years of mine I have done all I can, and feel no regret. Thank You, O God, for this life that You granted me. I’m eternally grateful for it._

_Amen… no._

_And one more thing._

Maybe it’s wrong, what she’s thinking of doing? Maybe her prayer should end here, and that should be that. It wouldn’t sit well, is the thing. To lie to God and say that there are no regrets. There are many. Petty, mostly - how she’ll never leave her Order, never live to spread the word further, never find herself tangled in an epic romance that will ultimately conclude as a successful test of her fate that brings her closer to God in the long run. And there are so many, so many that she could help that she won’t be able to. So many people to meet and to smile with and to love.

 _Him_ , too.

One shouldn’t pray for a demon. It feels _icky_ on every level, and he’d more likely than not take offence to the notion that he’s been prayed for. Artina can’t help it, though, for it’s the only peace she knows how to grant herself.

_Protect Mr. Valvatorez._

_I know, O Lord, that he is a vampire. I know that by his nature he believes the world believes he is wicked and irredeemable, but I have seen myself that his soul is kind. I don’t want him to be bound by a dead girl’s silly promise for all time. I don’t want my oblivion to bring about his._

_So please, God, I beg of You, free Valvatorez of the promise binding him to me, for his survival and my peace of mind. He doesn’t deserve to be held in such chains. No one does!_

_Thank You. May You feel my love and guide me when I enter Your Holy embrace._

_Amen._

She breathes a long sigh, picking herself up off of the stone floor and trudging to the hard bed. She may as well get in some final rest before… her… final rest. Wow, that’s depressing.

“Miss Artina?”

Ah. So much for the rest.

The familiar, nasal voice shocks her tired eyes open. Artina is back on her feet in seconds, now-wild eyes peering through wilder hair, searching around for the source she knows has to be there. Although the light is dim she catches sight of the one she dreads to see. He’s across the corridor from her, in a cell designed for temporary holding just like hers. The implications make her feel ill.

“Oh - it’s you! Are you - are you alright?”

She hurries to the bars, but when she wraps her hands around the cold metal they’re harshly struck by a baton. A terrible _crack_ resounds and Artina pulls away, yelping.

“Back it up, ‘Sister.’” spits the guard on duty.

Her hands tremble, her fingers on the left unresponsive. Broken, assumedly. Artina whimpers as _that man_ raves and curses from across the aisle, outraged at the attack. The guard that struck her snorts. They’re quick to tire of the Lieutenant Commander’s tirade when he doesn’t quiet, however, leaving nothing for Artina to do but avert her welling eyes in shame as they stride off to beat him, shifting her focus to trying to treat her own injuries and ignore that all that man suffers here is for the sin of shouting in her defence.

Dull thuds. Wet cracks. Screams. Grunts. They repeat over and over.

When the treacherous guard does finally bore of the beating, they give him a final kick to the ribs and saunter out of his cell, locking it again behind them. Artina gets a foul grin from them as they step out. Thankfully there’s no lingering, and as they head off further down the hall Artina is back at the bars, trying to rouse the poor soul with her voice.

“I’m so sorry! That was - Oh, that looks really bad…!”

He can hardly raise his head to look her way. An unsightly collage of bloody reds and bruising purples and worrying yellows has consumed his pallid face. He looks nearly as ghastly as the day he staggered into Artina’s little camp.

“It’s fine,” comes sputtered through broken teeth and torn lips. It’s very not-fine. “Is your hand alright, Miss Artina?”

To show concern for her even in this situation, it’s so much. Artina’s heart breaks for him, that he could be unfazed by such brutality directed to him. This man has gone through cruelty unfathomable to her.

“It’s - it doesn’t matter.”

It hurts like hell. A glance to the makeshift bindings she’s made tells her that it’s pretty bad. Blood is seeping through already, and what skin is visible has the same grotesque purple hue as his battered face. Even attempting to wiggle her fingers has her gritting her teeth to hold back a cry, and the fingers themselves don’t move at all. Awful.

“Is this where they’ve been keeping you since-?”

Since they raided her camp, incarcerated her patients, and dragged her off to a half-baked trial as an excuse to ‘formally’ execute her.

“Yeah… yeah. I thought they must’ve dragged you out of there under the assumption you didn’t know what you were doing, but I guess - where are they moving you to? I’ve heard they’re sending me off to the Gustark capital for, uh… ‘interrogation.’”

The lost soul drags himself up into a sitting position, cradling one arm against his chest. Tiny cringes and twitches of pain betray the composure he’s trying and failing to keep. Beyond the swelling that forces his eyes half-shut, he has an apologetic look to him. 

That expression of regret is one Artina knows too well, for she sees it on near-everyone who has entered the little church she was raised in, every wayward soul that drifts from confession to communion to the sinning outside world and back again. It's the look that young Nagi had when Artina found her all those months ago, trembling alone on a battlefield, soaked in the gore of man and demon alike. It’s the look she tries never to show, for this happy, humble life of hers needs no regret.

It’s the look in the vampire’s eyes when she laughed at his threats and stood unwavering before him.

“They’re moving me, um…” Artina’s words falter as she seeks a ‘suitable’ explanation. Lying to him doesn’t seem fair, and yet the truth is so difficult to face. “I don’t think they’re planning to move me. Or if they are, they haven’t said a thing about it so far.”

There. It’s not a lie.

“That’s good! That’s good. I mean… this place isn’t designed for long-term imprisonment. If they’re not planning to move you, maybe they’ll be releasing you soon! It’s not as if they’d-”

His hoarse voice dies off, and he shifts his position again. Staring right at her now. Oh, he’s had the realisation. That was quick.

Where his brutalised face twists in horror, Artina pushes a smile on her own. Her go-to diffusement for tension.

“You could be right! Maybe they’re reconsidering as we speak, you know? There’s no telling that they aren’t!”

“...Miss Artina, are they going to have you executed?”

Artina laughs, shrugs, nods.

“Seems like it! But as I said, maybe they’re reconsidering!”

They’re certainly not reconsidering. He gawks at her.

“How… how can you be so lighthearted about this?!”

Wounds won’t keep him down in such a situation. He drags himself up to his feet, leaving Artina to wince at every crack and ooze his body makes.

“Miss Artina, they’re going to kill you!”

“There’s not much I can do about it. I’m making my peace with it, my friend. I hope you can do the same.”

Her answer feels too cold to her, too detached. Yet, what else can she say? This unfortunate wretch of a man will undoubtedly be tortured long after they say their goodbyes. Peace with her death is the least she can offer him, so that one more tiny burden can be lifted from his tired shoulders.

“I’ll pray for you before I go, and God will watch you in my place.”

“That’s ridiculous. God doesn’t care! ‘God,’ if it’s even there, is indifferent to us! How else could humans have made such a horrible world?! Why would good people die if God cared, huh?! Does ‘God’ have an answer for me?!”

It hurts to hear his voice brimming with life for once, only for it to curse and question the name of God. This soul has been hurt so badly in life and she pities him for it, for all his hurt has led to disbelief, and disbelief means he’ll never understand Artina’s commitment to her Lord.

The rest of the night is silent, for there’s nothing else for them to say to one another.

It’s early morning when they wake her. She’s granted no pleasantries, no last meal, not even so much as gentle handling for her surely-broken hand. She’s dragged to her feet, roughly held as she's dressed in a white cotton gown for her execution. It's no fancier than her habit, yet the change conjures images of heroines and martyrs in her mind. She's not on their level. Perhaps she'll let herself pretend that she is, just for a little while. Then she's bound, hands behind her back, before they march her off. That man’s protesting cries earn no pity from the guards. One of them makes a show of contempt for him, ramming their foot into Artina’s back and knocking her to the ground. Her chin scrapes the floor, blooms of metallic tang burst to life in her mouth to compliment the sting of her bitten tongue. The guard then yanks her back to her feet by her bound wrists, and pushes her to keep walking.

The repeating shrieks of **_“Miss Artina! Miss Artina, no!”_ ** play her out of the building.

The early morning sky is streaked with pink and orange, colours dappled over the marvelous blue-grey expanse as delicately as the brush strokes of a fine painting. Leafless tree branches reach out to the dawn, spindly branches grasping like hands for the pleasant light above. It’s a beautiful morning.

Birds sing, and Artina plays her usual game of trying to identify them by song alone. Jays, maybe? It’s about the time of year for them. Lost in her own head is a good way to be today, for she hardly notices the filthy threat breathed in her ear by the same guard that had kicked her. Side-eyeing them, she offers no reaction. God forgive the spark of satisfaction she gains at watching their frustration. They want a frightened, repentant prisoner to callously rip life away from? Too bad, for Artina is not that. Artina is brave. Artina is a Sister, and her faith in God and in good is too much to let her feel fear at the threat of the end.

Artina does not have regrets.

The gallows, once ancient and retired as a relic of a more barbaric time, have sprung back to life in recent years. Too many prisoners and traitors, too low morale to line them all up and pop them off with a shot to the head. A waste of ammunition, a waste of time, when really it’s just _a waste of what can make a great show_. Excuses upon excuses for it, when Artina knows the real reason is the sick joy her captors take in seeing such a finely-staged execution. It’s vile.

She is marched onto the stage, stood before the crowd of jeering soldiers and politicians. The noose is hooked around her neck by an executioner who doesn’t bother with a hood. No one needs to hide who they are here, for every last one of them wants to watch the moment her body goes limp. Artina draws a deep breath and does all she can to steel herself for what’s to come.

_God will watch over her. God will guide her. God will judge her wretched soul._

The decorated military man in front of her is reading her ‘crimes’ off of a tablet, pausing after each charge to let the crowd _boo_ at her. What, is she some cartoon villain now? This show of theirs is so tacky. Do they not care that it’s a human life they’re toying with here, do they not care that this isn’t a game, and that they’re going to kill her?

...Who is she kidding, of course they don’t care.

A hundred eyes are locked onto her, watching for the moment her facade crumbles and she gives in to despair. Every last person in the crowd is living for the moment, and Artina won’t grant them the show they want to see. Artina won’t despair at her end.

The decorated man finishes reading out her trumped-up charges, hands off the tablet to another man, and turns to look Artina in the eye. Hungry for any sign, for the tiniest indicator of fear in her. He craves her misery. Where he sneers at her, she gives nothing. He won’t see her cry or shake or beg. Not now, not ever.

A final glance at the beautiful horizon before her. A wondrous sight, a happy sight, nature’s last gift to her before she leaves.

The executioner pulls the lever, and the trapdoor beneath her feet opens. She freefalls for less than a second, and -

And -

And she does not snap her neck with the impact. There is no impact.

Rather, she is held tight in bony arms draped over with heavy silks. Her final horizon is swallowed in inky blackness, punctuated by bright and deadly red. A screw? A screw, yes. Staked deep into a man's chest.

“You-”

“Hush.”

Valvatorez moves at astounding speeds. The bindings on her wrists are cut free by his hand, and her own freed, bruised hands are quickly tucked away against her chest. Sharp claws such as his are surprisingly useful. In his moment of ego, a sharp-toothed grin is flashed for Artina, who laughs. She laughs on her execution day.

These things can’t last.

“Have I struck you with fear yet, Miss Ar-?”

The taunting question goes unanswered as a shot rings out, then another, and another. So much for their 'saving ammunition' excuses. Valvatorez’s face falls as he is struck, repeatedly, in the back. He falters only briefly before tucking Artina closer and making his escape. The holes riddling his body don’t seem to slow him down much, though quickly it becomes evident that that was not the intent. A stinging, then a piercing, then agony hits Artina as their escape goes on and more shots hit. The white of her execution gown is tainted with deep red, spreading wide. Both of them realise too late that the forces were shooting _through_ Valvatorez at her.

_Well, shit._

Away goes Valvatorez, holding her close as shots continue firing off behind them. Artina can’t find it in herself to scream. Strength has left her so suddenly, it would be alarming had she the energy to _feel_ alarmed right now. All she can do is shudder helplessly in this weirdo’s inhuman embrace, head leaning against his cool chest. It’s funny how, in spite of what she’d expected, there is a heartbeat. Slow and arhythmic, yet persistent. Valvatorez’s heart does beat, and knowing that brings Artina a strange sense of peace amidst the pain.

It’s her church that they hide away in. The place they met, the place she grew up. Artina’s most precious place. These broken, crumbling remains of her destroyed home are still a comfort to her, incomparable to all else. The sky above is still so, so beautiful. Valvatorez hurries her inside and moves with a swiftness that shouldn’t be possible with all he bleeds. Another reminder of just how inhuman he is. A man unaffected by gunshots blowing clean holes through his body is surely a demon, as if there were any doubt remaining.

Except oh, then he’s so gentle while laying her down upon the altar, showing tenderness and care that no demon would or should, at least from what Artina has heard. Such a mess of contradictions this man is!

There's a child waiting for them. A dark hood covering the dirty orange of her mechanist clothes, Nagi Clockwork steps out from behind a pillar, peering with teary eyes down at Artina's broken body.

"Lass," snaps Valvatorez, quick to speak before she can take in the full extent of Artina's wounds. "Stand guard. They may be in pursuit, I'm unsure of how long we can stay."

"...Right, got it!"

And off she hurries, climbing over broken brick to stand 'outside.' She's so desperate to be helpful. Artina understands - this is the only family she has left, small and strange and about to leave her again. How terrible.

Valvatorez shivers and heaves when sure Nagi's out of earshot. His wounds are terrible, too. For Sister and child, he's trying to seem strong. Artina wants to coo words of thanks and encouragement, sweet and honeyed and painfully sincere, but all that bubbles up from her throat is a rattling cough and the taste of blood in her mouth anew.

So she smiles for him. He stares, intense and panicked, for he has no idea what to do to help her. Valvatorez, Tyrant Valvatorez, the Tepes Nightmare, King of Carnage and Atrocity, does not heal. He only destroys. He cannot save her, and both of them know it.

Red rage overtakes his panic after a moment.

His eyes fill up fiery, his body shakes with fury more than injury.

“Every single one of them… if you are to die here, then every person responsible shall meet the same fate! It is only fair! And I… shall be the one to enact this ‘justice,’ as you humans would call it!”

Artina’s smile falls away. Through her weakness she begs that he not do it, begs he show them a mercy that they don’t deserve. No more violence in her name, no more blood spilled, no reignition of a war that’s so close to finally ending. Her broken hand finally moves, and pushing through the hazy pain of shattered bone and snapped tendon she grips Valvatorez’s cravat, staining him with bloodied handprints as she begs in her fading voice.

“I have no regrets,” is something she says, but she can’t tell if it’s the truth or not. Her beliefs are strong, her morals stuck to, but what she’s condemned Valvatorez to… what she’s condemned _that man_ to… what she’s condemned her Sisters to… and what she's condemned young Nagi Clockwork to, can she call that no regrets?

There is, truthfully, no justice. He insists it is retaliation, fair and neutral, not raw and righteous revenge he intends to enact, Artina still can’t allow it. She offers her blood, pushing her wrist to his mouth and almost demanding he take it. Valvatorez is such a strange man, though, and he refuses her. He will not break his binding promise, something he argues with a fervor that shakes the ruins of the church.

Quickly, his defiant tone dies into a lamenting whisper as he reflects. He reflects on how he promised to protect Artina throughout the war, and now he has failed. That flash of solid red that overtook him fades to thin lines of crimson swimming in his yellowed, undead eyes, and the remorseful look he gives is painful to see.

Not as painful as her wounds, mind you, but pretty rough nonetheless.

Artina smiles again, laughs again. Twice now on the day of her death.

“You’re pretty earnest, aren’t you? Mr. Weirdo.”

Who knew that a vampire could cry?

He tries to hide it, snarks right back at her and calls her loud, incredulous. Insists her playfulness proves that she has to live. It isn’t true.

A hoarse apology leaves her lips, finally, for all the trouble she’s caused. How what she’d treated as a game has changed his life forever if he really intends to keep their promise.

_No regrets._

Artina does not have no regrets, and she knows it now. There are regrets upon regrets. Only one matters right now.

“My only regret is not… not being able to… let you… drink my blood…”

The beautiful sky swims and blurs with the ashy, broken brick of the high church walls and the deep black of Valvatorez’s cape. His raven hair, his lifeless, sallow skin, his jaundiced eyes and deep red slits of irises. The peculiar red screw embedded in his chest. The dull grey of the claws tipping his fingers, visible now his gloves are off. His hands are so cold as he cups her cheeks.

Drifting off to the sounds of his pleading cries, his distressed face is Artina’s last sight before the dark. It’s a last sight on par with that colourful sky in beauty, though she does wish she could have seen him smile as earnestly as he makes his promises, just once before the end.

Ah, well. It’s just one more regret.

* * *

Valvatorez spends hours confronting this 'grief.'

This is a new loss for him.

Those he can call his allies in the world have always been few and far between, even if not out of choice. Most vampires aren’t solitary creatures in spite of what they’ll say. And of course, Artina was prey before all else, but that doesn’t change how he’s come to care for her. To have their goodbye come about like this feels unfair. She doesn’t deserve this. Perhaps he does, but she doesn’t.

What God could allow this to happen so unfairly? Is human faith proven worthless here by the complete disinterest of their creator? He’ll be having words should he ever meet that God!

That little girl, Nagi, rushes back in when she hears him wail. And she joins him. Shaking Artina's unmoving form with desperate pleas for her not to leave her. She cries of how she has no one else. And she really doesn't. Valvatorez has his Fenrich, Nagi has... nobody. Dead father, dead mother, dead sister, dead Sister. How dreadful.

The pair of them mourn together, until Nagi stands suddenly, eyes blank, mumbling something Valvatorez doesn't catch. There's a sound like the rattling reloading of her gun as she walks away. He chooses not to watch as she wanders from the church, intent on finding the nearest active battlefield and stopping this war herself. It is against Artina's wishes, but that was a plea to Valvatorez. It's not one that ever reached that wretched child's ears. She can do what she likes.

Fenrich finds him, disheveled, at the twilight hour, when the customary burial has already been done. A makeshift cross carved with shaking claws from the marble of one of the church’s cracked pillars is her grave marker. Her ‘coffin’ is his overcoat, peeled away and cleansed of blood and bullets for her. His hair tie is hers now, a blindfold to protect her unseeing eyes from the earth.

_Artina Friedrich. Sister of this church. Eighteen years of age. A promise, unforgotten._

Valvatorez leaves with his comrade for their Netherworld, explaining the circumstances as they go. Fenrich is appalled. Fenrich thinks of a thousand reasons not to keep his promise to this ‘insignificant human girl.’ As soon as they are home, he tears the fresh bandages from his own neck and offers himself. Valvatorez does not listen to him, and he does not drink from his beloved companion. This promise that he has made to dear Artina will not be forgotten nor broken, even if it destroys his life. That is the way of the noble demon.

**Author's Note:**

> Val stop getting shot trying to protect your loved ones challenge
> 
> (I've done None of the Fuka and Desco flashback stories yet so watch me play through those and immediately find everything I've written here is contradicted. whatever!! I love Artina dearly.) - edit I've played through time leap and fuka and desco now and you know what. love nagi clockwork, but wow they really found a way to make val and artina's relationship even more shallow huh
> 
> this is in fact named after Hitoshizuku songs Sister’s ∞ mercY and Vampire’s ∞ pathoS but it could not have anything less to do with them other than there's a nun and a vampire. hooray.


End file.
